i made something special for you
by Albino Magpie
Summary: America is invited for dinner at Russia's house. Can anything possibly go wrong?


**A/N: **Warnings would be here if they wouldn't give the entire story away. Suffice to say, this is rated M for a reason. Proceed with caution.  
Oh, and by the way: "Amerika" is what Russia calls America because that's the transliterated Russian spelling. And it's cute.

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Being invited to Russia's house, with no-one else present, and under the absence of conditions like „Do not bring firearms." or „Make sure to bring firearms." was certainly a novum. In the more paranoid decades of the past, America would not have considered the offer. Most likely, he would not only have suspected a plot, but immediately devised a counter-plot of his own.

Anything to be a step – no, two steps, okay, a mile – ahead of Russia. Or, more precisely, the Soviet Union. With the latter entirely out of the picture, he wasn't sure what to make of an invitation for dinner, of all things.

At worst, it was a plot of a now-capitalist Russia still bent on taking over the world.

At best, inviting his former arch-nemesis to his house was an enormous peace offering.

And either way, America didn't feel like saying no. In the years after the Soviet Union's fall, Russia had gone more and more from being the ultimate inspiration behind all action movies and a generally creepy bastard to some kind of oversized miserable child (no way did he just think that) and a much less creepy bastard.

He decided to bring a firearm anyway. It _was_ Russia, after all.

Russia's house was an old mansion grown to almost the size of a palace by countless additions made over the centuries. The original structure was almost lost under a half-dream, half-nightmare of stucco, improbable colours, onion domes, windows that were nailed shut as well as some entirely incongruous graffiti.

There were also several doors ten feet above ground-level and no way to reach them.

He was greeted at the door, which sported a rather impressive brass knocker wrought in the shape of a double-headed eagle, by his ex-enemy.

Russia was, next to his typically guileless smile, sporting a number of bandages wrapped tightly around his left arm. America stared.

„Hey, what happened to you?"

He was honestly concerned, too – if Russia got into trouble, he could easily drag the whole world into the resulting mess.

Russia's smiled broadened even more, eyes widening into a stare that was every bit as fascinating as it was terrifying.

„Ah, that. I had a bit of a...disagreement with one of my southern neighbours. I can assure you that they have been taken care of."

„Um, yeah. Wouldn't want you to get into trouble, right?"

„Oh my, how impolite of me! To leave you standing on the doorstep like that! Do come in."

America let himself be ushered in, gawking at the bizarre, eclectic decor that continued inside the house. Russia seemed to be wounded worse than he let on – he was limping a bit.

The dining room would have been very fine, filled with nice hardwood furniture and crystal chandeliers, had it not been for the entirely misplaced desk that stood against one wall, overflowing with books and papers. The table was already set.

„Now do have a seat and tell me what you have been up to." Russia said, his smile now more open and genuine.

America peeled off his jacket and considered how to answer.

„All different kinds of stuff. Lots of new subcultures been popping up, it becomes pretty confusing after a while." America grinned. „I heard you've already got your fair share of goths."

Russia nodded. Under his smiling exterior, he had always been a bit melancholic and broody.

„Well, for the rest...some conflicts, as always. Economy's not really stable, but when is it ever. What 'bout you?"

A tiny shadow flickered across Russia's face, but it was gone as soon as it had appeared.

„Let us eat." he said, an edge to his voice that made the suggestion sound rather imperative.

America didn't want to press, and besides, food seemed like a great idea.

The soup was, oddly enough, luridly pink, but it didn't taste half bad. The main course consisted, besides salad, of these dough-things that were stuffed with mince-meat.

_Pelmani? Something like that._

These were _really _good. America heaped an enormous portion on his plate after he'd taken the first bite. He even let himself be talked into taking a few shots of vodka, which made a pleasant warmth spread in his chest.

It was shaping up to be a really nice evening. They talked about culture mostly, avoiding political topics.

It looked like America wouldn't even need the Desert Eagle tucked into his waistband.

Hell, why had he even brought a gun? All that leftover paranoia had to go.

It was the twenty-first century, for God's sake!

„Hey, Russia. You know, I kinda want to get rid of all the bad blood between us. We both did stuff we're not proud of. So...let's raise our glasses – to better cooperation in the future, yeah? Na-nasadrowje, or however you guys say."

„Nastarowje." Russia said, their glasses clinking together.

America downed his vodka, wrinkling his nose a bit as it stung.

„Okay, and now you gotta tell me the recipe for those pelm-somethings. These were awesome."  
„Pelmeni. They're quite simple to make. You make a dough from flour, water, salt and eggs, and fill it with minced meat. Then they are boiled."

„Okay, got it. And what kinda meat did you use?"

Suddenly, the creepy smile was back full-force. Russia's eyes looked like some kind of gates to the abyss again.

„Oh, I tried out something new, you see. I wasn't sure, but since this is our first civil meeting after a long time, I wanted to prepare something special for you."

America laughed nervously. What was Russia trying to say?

„So, what was it? Pig? Cow? Hell, bear?"

„Ah, no, none of those." Russia was smiling, and his right hand started picking at the bandages around his arm. After some more insistent tugging, they came off and revealed a length of flesh that was...not there at all. A large chunk of Russia's forearm had been cleanly cut away, showing the white bone beneath.

„I must admit, my earlier story of a skirmish was a shameless lie. I do hope that you are not too cross with me."

America could barely process the situation.

_I think I'm gonna be sick._

„Don't make such a face. Just a minute ago, you were all praise. Am I not to your taste?"

„You- you..." America got up from his chair, unsure of what he was supposed to _do._

„Oh, are you leaving already? Do come by again, you're always welcome for dinner."

America had not heard the last bit. He had already fled from the house.

„Amerika? You have forgotten your jacket!"

_Oh well. More leftovers for me._


End file.
